Happiness
by iamthejabberwocky
Summary: He is the one they ask what to put on her epitaph. They ask the woman’s supposedly cool, unemotional boyfriend and expect him to simply tell them, then and there. How are they to know that he is only half-Vulcan? Dead!Uhura, comforting!Kirk and KirkXSpock
1. Chapter 1

"_She's dead, Jim_."

He is the one they ask what to put on her epitaph—she is to be given a traditional Earth burial, as instructed in her will, and not a Starfleet one, but a _true_ funeral, in an old brick church near the bay. They ask the woman's supposedly cool, unemotional boyfriend—fiancé?—and expect him to simply tell them, then and there, with none of the tearful sputtering of a human when a loved one is lost. How are they to know that he is only half-Vulcan?

"_She's dead_—"

There are no tears, but a strange constriction suddenly makes an appearance in his throat, causing him mild difficulties in swallowing, speech and breathing. He has experienced this before, yes, but it was always… distasteful. As he takes a moment to attempt to calm himself, trying not to look at the two funeral home workers gazing at him in expectation, his captain, at his side—and always there, or perhaps him perpetually at Kirk's, and how odd he should notice that now—answers for him. He doesn't hear what is said, and he does not particularly care.

Kirk tries to steer him away, murmuring softly that they can come back, it's alright, he doesn't have to do this today, but he isn't listening. Words come back to him suddenly, words from years ago, when he had been betrothed to the woman he left behind on Vulcan, the woman whose death caused him only a vague sense of regret as another one of his people gone. He turns swiftly and, still not trusting himself to make an attempt at speech successfully, writes the words so sacred to Vulcan ritual: "Parted and never parted—never and always touching and touched." He finds them appropriate to the occasion, and what a true Vulcan may think of their words becoming the epitaph of a woman who is—was—not Vulcan, was not bonded to a Vulcan, but was—_is_—illogically… loved—yes, he can admit it, there is no shame in this now, only regret, longing—by their foremost half-breed… well. Their opinions mean nothing to him in the face of this. Very little does.

"—_dead—_"

The smile Kirk gives him is strained, forced and sad, but comforting nonetheless. He nods silently at the captain in thanks as they leave the tall office building together to head back to the Academy. Both prefer the safe familiarity of the _Enterprise_, but only Chief Engineer Scott had been allowed to remain during the dry dock procedures. They walk in silence, companionable as it had come to be between them, but heavy with the weight of his grief and Kirk's concern and compassion hanging over them.

It is on a street corner that he feels he can take no more. "_She's dead, Jim_." There is nothing special about this particular corner. He has never been here with her—in fact, never been here before at all. It is nearly identical to the billions of other street corners in San Francisco, and yet he knows with utter certainty that he must say something now. He does not know what will happen if he doesn't—that is, in fact, not even a possibility that occurs to him.

He stops walking. Kirk takes only one more small step before pausing himself and turning back, curiosity and worry easily read on his face and, though he did not dare look at them, in those warm eyes. Murmuring quietly, "Spock?" and receiving no answer, he gently takes his friend's arm in one hand and pulls him to the side, out of the way of other pedestrians.

"What's wrong?" whispers Kirk gently, knowing that his superior hearing will pick up on the words. Without warning, he feels the urge to laugh, and only his hard-earned Vulcan control allows him to clamp down on the impulse.

Where to begin? There are a great many things wrong with the universe. Things had seemed better when she had been there beside him. Her arms wrapped around him, her lips pressed against his skin, soft and warm, a gentle pressure—all of these things had given him comfort, however illogical it was to feel that way and to indulge in it. _"She's dead_." The various injustices and paradoxes of the universe now seem to be closing in on him, smothering him their darkness now that the light she projected has been extinguished.

From somewhere in the back of his mind, a small part of him balks at his illogicality. A larger part of him is beyond concerning himself with such things.

He becomes slowly aware of Kirk staring at him, and even more gradually aware that he had been speaking, calling his name. "Are you alright?" he hears.

"No," he answers, surprising himself with his honesty—but Kirk knew he was not, and he owed this man the truth, after all. This was his captain—his friend.

The answer comes immediately, and he should not be thrown by it, though he is. Despite Kirk's… abrupt and combative nature, once you had gained his friendship, he was all fierce loyalty and caring, tender concern.

"What do you need?"

Perhaps it is those specific words, so like a different time, a reminder of similar grief, similar comfort—"_Tell me what you need_"—she had had to lift herself to the balls of her feet to kiss him—her body had felt oddly warm against him when he had put his arms around her in turn, pulled her to him, and it shouldn't have, since humans have a body temperature that is approximately eighty-four point eight percent of a Vulcan's—

"Spock?"

"I have been experiencing… strange auditory sensations," he admits rather reluctantly. Kirk's face changes, morphs into an expression of cautious worry now. He imagines it is the same look Kirk would have gotten in his childhood, looking at the thinly iced lakes of Iowa in winter, if Jim Kirk felt the same fear as normal human beings. It dawns on him that he perhaps had not phrased that correctly. "They are not hallucinations, however. Merely… fragments of memories. From… when I discovered…" He allows himself to trail off, leaving Kirk to decipher the meaning of that statement on his own. Again, Kirk's expression changes and he marvels anew at the openness of this human's mannerisms, appreciating it for once, though he has no logical hypothesis as to the reason why this is so. The captain looks at him with an obviously tender emotion that he can only call love, though it is not a wholly accurate description.

Kirk does not reply with words, instead deliberately reaching out to take his hand, holding the pale green hand firmly but gently between both of his, suspended between their two bodies. He projects his own feelings of sorrow for this death, his concern for his friend, his love, his hope that things will heal and be alright—

They pull away gently and without warning, but as if by mutual agreement. He feels no better, but more…composed than before. He thinks that some of his gratitude reached Kirk somehow, because the other man's eyes are shining and he receives a quick nod in acknowledgement.

Beginning to walk again, Kirk says with that same steady, but not smothering, tenderness, "Dinner in my quarters tonight?" It is a familiar question by now, and one that he is grateful for, even if he knows that the quarters will not be the same set of rooms he has come to derive strange reassurance from aboard their ship.

He simply nods, knowing that whatever they do will be entirely up to him—many times they have sat in silence, or played a game of chess and often discussed ship's business (with many of those discussions devolving into heated debates on loosely related topics). The silence is again companionable, and if he notices the way Kirk's body seems to come into contact with his own more often than the normal average of twelve times while walking side-by-side, or his own contentment each time he receives a flash of Kirk's emotions—a balm to the burns caused by his own—he does not comment on it, even in the privacy of his own mind.

X

He worries about Spock, it's true. Even now, four months after her death, he worries. It isn't as obvious as it was in the first few days, the first few weeks, but they argue less than they did before that mission. It had been friendly fighting, by then, the two becoming almost affectionate with their repeated semi-insults of "damned pointy-eared bastard" and "illogical, impulsive, irrational _human_," but by unspoken agreement that bickering was left behind now, just as it had been directly after the death of Vulcan and Spock's mother on their first mission together.

The crew of the _Enterprise_ has been back in space for three months, on their way towards the Romulan neutral zone—a far less dangerous place since the discovery of their sun's imminent death and subsequent destruction of their planet in as little as a hundred and fifty years and their need for help from the Federation—and he noticed Spock seemed more at ease now that they were away from Earth. Perhaps it had been the well-wishers with good intentions coming to Spock almost constantly with condolences, former professors bombarding him with questions and his own former students pelting him with pity—he knew that if Spock loathed any emotion in humans, it was pity.

He sits on the bridge after boring days of star mapping they pause to do on their way to the neutral zone and thinks about how his own relationship with Spock has been altered since that mission five months ago. He had known that the Vulcan was a sensitive person under that impassive mask with intense feelings, had _felt_ the proof of that in the form of a strong hand wrapped tightly around his throat, but it is an entirely different sensation to have those feelings confided in you.

Though perhaps, he thinks, "confide" is not the correct term for Spock's interactions with him. The Vulcan has been more open with him, yes, but never has he said what he feels. His insights come in snippets, brief sentences with references to the other's human mother, his childhood on Vulcan, those of his race he knew that, now, were gone (never anything about her, not yet—he knows it will come and doesn't push). He can never hear any emotion in Spock's voice, but it is always softer, slower and gentler than normal and there is an unmistakable air of nostalgia about these exchanges. He listens attentively, smiles sometimes and nods along, responds with a memory of his own when he finds it appropriate.

His gaze finds Spock at his station, quietly attending to a data padd, occasionally glancing to his instruments, and his mind wanders to that night two days before her funeral. Spock had nearly broken down, then, almost cried that night after dinner—he noticed, with some sadness, understanding and concern, that the Vulcan hadn't eaten much at that meal or any since—and his clumsy attempts to comfort his friend.

They had been seated at the small table inside his temporary quarters, Spock's gaze fixed on his plate, still nearly full, when the Vulcan had begun to speak. "My mother's favorite food was sunflower seeds." For the first time, he noted that there were indeed sunflower seeds in Spock's salad—unusual, and something Spock had probably programmed into the replicators himself. "I found this highly illogical—they provide no significant nutritional contributions." Spock had then plucked one from his salad and stared at it as though it were some form of puzzle box he could not figure out despite all of the collective weight of his intelligence behind his efforts.

"Tell me about your mother?" requested Spock mildly. He had done so, relating to his companion both good and bad tales, woven together to form a realistic picture of what life with her had been like. He was unaware of how long he spoke for, but Spock's attention never wandered from him and neither grew bored. It was some time later that Spock spoke again, aside from his clarifying questions.

"Do you miss her presence?" Spock had asked. The question had caught him off guard, but he quickly reined in his reaction.

Shrugging, he had answered, "Yeah. But there comes a point when every kid has to leave the nest, so to speak." Spock had nodded, just the slightest bowing of his head, in acknowledgement. Then his First Officer had, rather abruptly, closed his eyes to prevent tears from falling. Impulsively, as was his general style of conduct, he had risen and walked around the table to his friend. Laying each of his hands on one of Spock's shoulders, he had said nothing, knowing that between them, words were rarely really necessary. He had then pulled the Vulcan up and led him over to the bed.

He could sense Spock's mild confusion, almost feel it as palpable as he pulled his friend down onto the mattress with him. He had lain down then, taking his friend with him. Then he had drifted off to sleep, the feeling of Spock's eyes trained on him not at all uncomfortable as he thought it may be. Spock was gone when he rose the next morning.

Since then, they have repeated this several times—though he doesn't know the exact number, he was quite certain Spock does—with his Vulcan friend gone come morning and no mention of it ever made between them. It isn't necessary to speak of it—if this is what Spock needs, he is more than willing to give it to him. It isn't pity, but friendship. Besides, he thinks, letting Spock lay in bed with him until he falls asleep is one of the less stressful and strange coping mechanisms he's encountered.


	2. Chapter 2

The funeral had been a small, quiet affair. Though her death had been in the media, the mission she died on being high-profile, they had requested that only close friends and family be allowed to attend. None of the attendees who were enlisted wore their uniforms, all choosing customary civilian formal attire appropriate for such an occasion. He had worn dark, simple Vulcan robes—the same he had worn to his mother's funeral, only a year prior to this one and much the same. He had stood between McCoy and Kirk, tense the entire time her body—he can still remember the feeling of her in bed with him, smoothing his bangs away from his face in soothing, repetitive motions—was lowered into the ground. He had not attended the services inside of the church, instead choosing to say a few Vulcan words of parting—the closest thing they had to prayers—at her gravesite.

He had not listened to the passages read from the humans' holy book as they buried her, instead allowing his mind to wander to the strangest places. He thought of the human vids he had watched with his mother as a child, and reflected that all of the funerals they had shown had been in the rain, with many people crying over the loss of their companion. He looked up at the sky, a light grey-blue with fewer clouds to be seen than usual, and far less fog than normal for San Francisco. Of the few in attendance, only Chekov cried. This did not surprise him. He quietly noted that such forms of media manipulated the circumstances to provoke a greater emotional response from their viewers—again, unsurprising.

The human part of him was outraged at his conduct. This is your woman—she who was to be your wife, he had thought to himself. It would be more proper for you to be thinking about her, grieving for her, than ruminating on the weather. The more rational part of him acknowledged that this was his way of coping with yet another great loss—just one of the many he had experienced in the relatively short space of one point six eight years.

That had been the second night he had allowed himself to take comfort in the presence of his captain, though he also stopped to speak to Doctor McCoy—a good man, always treating women with respect, especially her, all while making them feel as equals to males, he could see no reason for this human having been rejected by his wife and the mother of his daughter but perhaps his exceptional temper and tendency to drink. He accepted the quiet condolences of Sulu and Chekov with quiet thanks before leaving, not attending the wake her rather distant relatives had planned.

Kirk had invited himself to walk back to Starfleet grounds with him, and he had not minded. They had not been silent this time, with Kirk quietly talking about his dog Fizzbin and describing the farm in Iowa where he had grown up. He was grateful and somewhat bewildered by how intuitive this human was—it would not come as a great shock to him to find out that Kirk was not precisely psi-null as most of his race are, so efficient was their connection.

They reached the hallway containing both of their quarters and Kirk smiled at him in that same sad, forced way that had become familiar by now but still seemed wrong for this brilliant, shining example of a human being and said, "Dinner in my quarters?" He nodded in the affirmative and looked away so as not to see the smile fade from Kirk's face as he knew it would—so serious he would look without it, even more so than the grim look he gets with it, a harsh reminder of the devastation plain to see on his face when the landing party had returned fragmented from that fateful mission—

That night had been much like the last they had shared. There was a quiet game of chess which they soon gave up on after finding that they continually failed to keep their focus and simply sat together for a time until, just as before, Kirk pulled him into bed and slept.

He watched his friend, feeling a sort of longing, seeing Kirk's chest rise and fall steadily, his mouth falling open in contented sleep—she had slept in a similar way, but with her hair spread out upon the pillow, her hands reaching out blindly for him instead of at her sides as Kirk's remained throughout the night.

When the first rays of sun began to filter in through the windows, he left quietly, slipping into his own quarters, laying down with every intention of sleeping. It happened suddenly, without any warning even to him—a thin trail of tears began to slide down his cheeks and he remembered another's tears, wetting his shirt as her face pressed into his chest, her arms wrapped around him tightly. The tears fell into slightly parted lips, and his mind immediately began to analyze the salty taste and form a picture of the molecules.

It occurred to him that night as he fell into an uneasy slumber that never before had his crying, even in childhood, yielded tears.

X

Bones knows that they sleep together. He accidentally let it slip a couple of weeks ago, on their first real shore leave since what he has come to think of as The Mission. They had been in a bar, doing shots and rating the women—human or otherwise—as they passed their table. Neither intended to get drunk, and neither had. The night had ended for both with a pleasant buzz and, miraculously, no fights had. But at almost exactly 2100 hours, he had stood, drained the last of his drink and said without pausing to think, "I should get back to the ship—Spock'll want to go to bed soon, probably."

There had been a moment of awkward silence as both men digested what he had just told the doctor, and then the older man had answered, "I think you'd better sit down and tell me what the hell's going on."

He knew Spock would kill him if he found out Bones knew, but the worst case scenario of not telling was far more frightening than that: Bones confronting the Vulcan himself. With a slight shudder, he began his explanation. "It, ah, started a couple days before the funeral. We had dinner in my room at the Academy, and…"

Bones said nothing throughout this, sitting quietly with only his bright blue eyes trained on him as an indication that he was paying attention. When it drew to a close sometime later, all he said was, "I'll be damned."

He didn't know what to make of this—still doesn't, in fact—but Bones didn't make a single comment about emotions or the expression of them around Spock for the next two weeks.

Spock stays longer now than he used to, never sleeping himself—he wonders when his friend does sleep—but is often meditating on the floor beside the bed when he wakes up, or eating breakfast with a plate for him across the table. They don't say anything to each other in the mornings, sometimes giving a quiet nod in greeting, if that, before Spock rises and leaves.

They argue now, too. Only on the bridge, about ship's business, but he thinks it's progress. Strange that such a thing makes the crew around them more relaxed, but it does. If he's entirely honest, it puts him more at ease, too. He and Spock just aren't meant to get along as long as they have been, no matter what the relationship between their alternates was.

Their alternates… When he melded with Spock Prime, he saw more than he thinks the old Vulcan intended. He saw games of chess during late nights when sleep was made impossible for whatever reason, saw gentle, lingering touches and warm gazes across the bridge and heard words he would never forget—"_I have always been, and always shall be, your friend_"—from the old Spock in front of him and the younger alternate in his memories, in his head.

He hasn't discussed any of that with his Spock, but he thinks the other knows. He wants to talk about it anyway, and so one night while he's lying on his side, watching Spock stare at his ceiling, he says, "The Captain Kirk in the other timeline was… impressive."

"Indeed," replies the other, and it could be a brush-off but he knows that it isn't.

"Yeah. And his… our?" He chuckles quietly, still undecided upon which pronoun to use.

"Their," suggests Spock, and he nods and continues.

"Their relationship was… well, it was something," he says. There is silence, and he looks at Spock's now-closed eyes and wonders if the Vulcan has actually fallen asleep, though he's doubtful. Finally the Vulcan turns his head to face him, opens his eyes and says—

"What was… _she_ like?" asks the Vulcan softly. "In their universe?"

He feels his stomach begin twisting even as some previously unnoticed tension begins to ease. It's good for Spock to talk about her, he knows it is—he just wishes that it didn't have to be with him. But he sighs internally and begins to search through his memories, his and yet not his. He doesn't want to talk about this, but if it's what Spock needs, he'll do it.

As he describes her, a woman so alike and yet so unlike the one they had known, he wonders if they will ever be something Spock needs that he can't—or won't—give. He doesn't think so.

That night, for the first time, the changing pressure on the mattress as Spock rises wakes him. He doesn't stop to think about it, simply reaches out and grabs his friend's wrist. The Vulcan turns to him, one eyebrow raised.

"Stay?" he asks, knowing that if he did not make it a question it would be taken as an order—he is tempted to make it one, but he does not want to be this man's commanding officer here and now, in his room and in his bed.

A slight nod, and Spock slips back into bed with easy grace. He sleeps better that night than he has in months, and his First Officer is still there in bed when he wakes in the morning, this time, though he knows the other got no sleep.

While they prepare for their duty shift, he tries hard not to think about why waking up with the other man seems…right.

X

He sees Admiral Pike almost six months after the funeral. It is at a conference on a Starbase, and it makes him illogically tense to see Romulans mingling among the humans in attendance—this new-found peace makes him quite uncomfortable, and he fears it will not last. His captain shares this concern, but they seem to be in the minority—it would be logical, he reflects, to find a balance between the tense, near-paranoia of Kirk and the blind optimism of the Federation's—and Starfleet's—officials. Perhaps he should bring it up when he has the opportunity.

The admiral seems to be doing quite well, out of his wheelchair and walking with the assistance of a cane now. In a number of months his legs should regain the strength to do without even that, he is told. It is gratifying to see this man well—he came to respect Pike during his years at the Academy and the brief period in which Pike was his captain.

They speak only briefly, however. Many things are mentioned in passing—the Vulcan colony's difficulties, its successes; the _Enterprise_'s recent missions; the topics of the conference… and then her.

"I wish I could have been at the funeral," Pike says. "If I hadn't been off-planet… she was a good officer."

"She was," is all he can think to say. His mouth seems to have gone rather dry, but the strange tightening he has come to expect in his chest does not come—it is progress, he knows, and perhaps something to be discussed with the captain; Kirk seems to gain a rather illogical satisfaction from such things.

Pike places a hand on his shoulder briefly, touching him in a way he allows few people to. He does not protest. "I'm sorry. I know you two were… close. I believe your people say… 'I grieve with thee,'" says the admiral, and he is strangely pleased by the use of this traditional Vulcan phrase as well as Pike's easy transition into a new topic following this.

He has taken to staying in his captain's bed through the night now that he knows he is welcome, and he tells Kirk of the exchange that night, and the absence of the strange constriction. Kirk smiles at him, and the way his eyes shine is familiar by now.

"I'm glad," says Kirk, and that is all he needs to say. They order the lights out, and for the first time, Kirk inches closer to him and places his head against the other's shoulder—not on it, as she used to, but with his ear pressed against the warmth of his skin, shirtless as he has taken to sleeping—she used to insist on it, citing a liking for touching as much of their skin as possible together, and he has found now that any fabric feels illogically stifling—it took him quite some time to become acclimated to the temperature of Kirk's rooms, but now that he has he cannot sleep any other way.

By the time his thoughts come back to Kirk, the other is asleep and he finds that he has no wish for the man to move.

Also for the first time, he sleeps until morning and is woken by Kirk, who, again, seems illogically pleased. He doesn't pause to think about this.

That day at lunch, he eats with the doctor in the officer's mess. Conversation does not come as easily with McCoy as it does with the captain, but this bothers neither of them. They make small talk, about their mission, the next one, the previous one, the problems of the crew, all very normal things.

Until, near the end of their meal together, McCoy says, "Oh, last night Chekov was looking for you. Something about a message for Lieutenant Marlena… Mulberry—

"Mulroy?" he corrects automatically.

"Yes, in your department. I sent it along for you—didn't want him wakin' up you and Jim."

He blinks in surprise, not having known that the doctor knew of his strange habit. After a moment, he replies, "Thank you, Doctor." McCoy nods and they move on to other things, though his mind remains occupied by this.

He speaks to Kirk that night about it. He makes sure to inject no emotion into his voice as he says, "It has become apparent to me that Doctor McCoy knows of our… sleeping arrangements." Kirk's eyes snap to his face immediately, a guilty look creeping onto his face.

"I… sorry, Spock. I told him a while ago," admits Kirk. He raises and eyebrow at the captain, intending to dispel the man's concern, but the human barrels on before he can get a word in. "I know I shouldn't have said anything, it's… you're a very private person, I get that, but—"

"Captain—"

"—it just kind of—"

"Captain, I—"

"—came out, and—"

"_Jim_." The use of the man's real name stills him, and he continues. "The doctor is your friend. It is only logical that you confide in him. I had simply wondered how he had come by this information. Now I am aware."

"So, ah. It's a-okay?" says Kirk. He does not bother to keep the almost-smile from his face as he nods.

"Indeed."

The next morning, just before they leave the captain's quarters, Kirk leans over and kisses him briefly. It is quick and chaste with only a little pressure, but he freezes for a moment before striding quickly down the hall towards the turbo, Kirk right behind him.

He finds some excuse to go to the science laboratories instead of remaining on the bridge with the captain that shift. He does not return to Kirk's quarters that night, and finds no sleep in his own.


	3. Chapter 3

There are few things he's done in life that he actually regrets—only two to date, actually, and one was not even something he ever had control of (his third try at the Kobyashi Maru—he should have left well enough alone, he knows that now, and it really _was_ cheating, though he'll never admit that to anyone but himself—and never getting to know his own father, though of course that couldn't be helped). Now he would have to add a third to his list.

He has no idea what possessed him to do it—really, kissing Spock like that? It had seemed almost… natural, at the time—as if they were a middle-aged couple who kissed each other before walking out of the house to their separate jobs. As if he simply… had the right to do it.

As he steps onto the bridge, he forces his mind to the matter at hand. The communications officer—he feels a sharp sense of sorrow that it isn't her, a feeling he hasn't experienced in weeks, and knows it has to do with the prospect, now, of losing Spock's trust; just another thing he will have to live with losing, if it happens, and he feels another pang at the thought—turns to him, the motion getting his attention.

"The distress call definitely came from one of the solar systems in this sector, Captain," she says. She's a blonde with pale skin and subtle make-up, and not bad looking, but he wants his communications officer to have black hair, ridiculously long and dark olive skin. He wants things the way they were when he was a newly-minted Captain and the prospect of a friendship with Spock was an unknown factor to be worked for, hoped for, not taken for granted.

He pushes the thoughts away. "Can you pinpoint it any closer, Lieutenant?"

"Negative," she answers. "It was so badly garbled all we got was the name _Constellation_. Then we lost it."

"Sir," he hears Sulu call, and turns to him. "We're now within the limits of system L-370, but I can't seem to locate—" Another interruption, this time from Spock. His heart jumps at the sound of the Vulcan's voice, but skips a beat at the words.

"Captain, sensors show this entire solar system has been destroyed. Nothing left but rubble and asteroids."

He turns to the viewscreen and sees the asteroids, and sits heavily in the center seat. "That's incredible," he says. "The star in this system is still intact—only a nova could destroy it like that."

"Nevertheless, Captain," answers Spock, and he hears a definite note of irritation. He resists the urge to wince at the tone. "Sensors show nothing but debris where we charted seven planets last year."

He turns away from Spock, finding that he can't bear to look at the man now, not with the weight of that morning's events between them. "Continue search pattern," he commands Sulu, barely hearing the man's reply.

Things only seem to grow more and more tense between him and his First Officer—so much so, in fact, that he takes only Scotty and Doctor McCoy with him to the _Constellation_, once found, when he normally would have taken Spock as well. If the bridge crew seem to notice that Spock does not go with them to the transporter room as he normally does, they fail to react.

They find Commodore Decker aboard his damaged ship and send him to the _Enterprise_. The discovery of the now-dead crew on the destroyed third planet, trying to determine what it is that's destroying those planets—he's on autopilot now. He's barely aware of telling Decker to put Spock on, barely aware of the danger the Rigel system is in, barely aware of telling his crew to beam Scotty and the security officers back.

He knows what he has to do to kill this creature. He doesn't intend to die—of course not, he isn't suicidal—and it exasperates him that he has to explain this to Spock, though the man's concern warms him, gives him hope of repairing the damage he did to their relationship.

It is only as the transporter fails them the first time, as he is staring into the bright light of the mechanism's insides, the _Constellation_ about to be swallowed, that the full force of what is happening hits him—he's facing death here, he has no doubts about that, and he suddenly remembers facing the edge of the cliff, turning the car, jumping desperately from it, his heart slamming into his ribs—

There is a brilliant flash of light as the _Constellation _finally makes contact with the creature, and then he is back in the transporter room of the _Enterprise_. He looks to Scotty, standing at the controls, and the man nods, telling him that the planet-killer has been destroyed. He sags against the wall in relief and laughs, stopping only when Spock comes to escort him to his quarters.

The walk there is tense, and the half-foot of space between them as they make their way down the corridor seems like so much more. They reach his quarters, and he extends an invitation for Spock to enter as well. He doesn't expect it to be accepted, and so his surprise when the Vulcan wordlessly steps through the door is nearly palpable.

What happens next is outright shocking—the moment the doors close behind them, he finds himself wrapped almost too tightly in strong arms and Spock's voice murmuring so softly he cannot hear what is being said, breath warm against his neck.

He takes the only logical course of action and hugs back.

X

He doesn't speak of the kiss, or his loss of control after the captain's safe return from the _Constellation_. Avoiding the issue will, he knows, inevitably lead to tension and, eventually, confrontation, but—somewhat uncharacteristically—he cannot bring himself to destroy the fragile peace they now share. He has returned to sleeping in Kirk's quarters almost nightly, their (admittedly somewhat…playful) arguments have begun again (the expected "—pointy-eared prick—" followed by "It would seem that you expend a great amount of energy examining my ears, Captain—perhaps you are envious of my superior hearing abilities?") and games of three-dimensional chess have again begun.

He has few illusions concerning the negativity of the final outcome of this situation. There will, undoubtedly, be some damage to their relationship. But for now, he allows himself to indulge in his human side.

Kirk seems to be equally unwilling to give up their newfound truce and does not bring it up either. This is strangely out of character for the captain—though, he reflects, the man has grown in leaps and bounds since his sudden promotion, and diplomacy is only one of the various skills in which he has noticed a vast improvement. That he should now command the same control in his personal life is only logical.

He has taken, also, to meditating within Kirk's quarters. The captain does not question this choice, simply nods and smiles when he pulls out his meditation robes and finds something else to do. He wonders when he became comfortable enough to do this in these quarters—it was only very rarely that he allowed himself to fall into a meditative trance in her quarters, and he does so nearly every night before dinner in Kirk's now. Quickly, he puts it from his mind.

The things they talk about over dinner—in Kirk's quarters often, though with Doctor McCoy almost as much—have become an easy mixture of official Starfleet matters and personal anecdotes. He finds himself wondering with some interest if this is how human friends interact. He is tempted to ask the doctor, but knows that such a question would go back to Kirk, and he does not wish it to be misinterpreted. It does, of course, occur to him to ask Kirk, but he quickly dismisses the idea; as a participant in their relationship, the captain would be quite biased.

For the first month after their unspoken reconciliation, he lies awake at night and feels a vague sense of sadness. It starts when, for the first time in quite a while, Kirk keeps to one side of the bed, sleeping rigidly. He admires his captain's control even as he wishes the human would not do this to himself—it is well known to him how much Kirk enjoys physical contact with other beings, sexual or not.

That is how it starts, but once he has allowed the emotion to remain for a small length of time, making no attempts to release it, the sensation grows. Soon it encompasses the destruction of Vulcan, his mother's death, not having seen his father or the Vulcan colony, her death… The list goes on and on, and soon the sensation is accompanied by a feeling of disgust with himself for… wallowing, really.

Near the end of that first month, however, he lies on his side and watches Kirk, examining his impulse to brush back a stray lock of hair from his captain's forehead. He dismisses it as illogical, just as the man stirs and then opens his eyes.

"Mmm, what time…?" Though the mumbled sentence is poorly phrased and nearly unintelligible, thick as Kirk's voice is with sleep, he understands instantly and responds promptly, as always.

"0300." Kirk groans, rubs his eyes, and sits up. He shifts his position, lying flat on his back so as to meet the other's eyes, though they can barely see one another in the near blackness of Kirk's quarters.

"Have you gotten any sleep?" A flash of something remarkably like guilt hits him, though at first he cannot pinpoint what he feels guilty for. As he answers honestly, murmuring a quiet "no," he finds the source.

Worrying Kirk. How illogical this seems on the surface, he thinks, barely hearing Kirk's quiet reply—"What are we gonna do with you, Spock?"—and yet how sensible. Friends do not wish for their friends, the people they care for, to experience feelings such as worry and concern.

"I do not require—"

"—as much sleep as humans, I know," Kirk says, though he does not look at all reassured. "But you aren't a full Vulcan, either. I'd advise against trying to go without sleep for months as some of them do."

"Your suggestion has been noted." This receives a quiet chuckle from the captain, though he cannot fathom why. It is well that he dismissed the notion of the other laughing at him personally long before, or moments such as this one may have been much more awkward.

Kirk lays himself down again, on his stomach this time, and props himself up on his elbows. Looking at his friend, he asks quietly, "What are you thinking about?"

"Loss," he answers after a moment. "My mother, my homeworld, Nyo…the lieutenant. My father. I have not communicated with him in some weeks." The captain does not mention his verbal stumble, for which he is grateful.

"Mm," answers Kirk, sounding all too understanding. "It doesn't ever really go away, does it? You can distract yourself, and it may get easier with time, but it's always there, in the back of your head. Like a tumor or something." He is suddenly, forcefully reminded that his bright, shining captain experienced loss so much earlier than any person should have to.

"Is it truly better," he starts slowly, "as your people say, to have 'loved and lost than to have never loved at all?'"

Kirk looks mildly surprised, but the expression quickly fades into sadness again. He gives a lopsided smile and says, "The million credit question, I guess. 'Night, Spock. At least try to sleep, okay?" He expects the other man to lay down once more, but the captain stays as he is, obviously waiting for his promise in return.

"Affirmative," he replies.

"Good." Kirk returns to his earlier position, closing his eyes and slowing his breathing, employing near-instantaneous sleep techniques taught at the Academy.

Once he is entirely certain the other is asleep, he slowly, hesitantly turns onto his side again, and reaches out. He gently brushes back the unruly hair—it needs, he decides, to be cut—and then places his hand on top of the captain's. The touch is small and light, but apparently what both of them need.

He sleeps fitfully that night and wakes up to Kirk's body pressed against his.


	4. Chapter 4

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks for all the feedback, guys! You're so nice to me. :3 Sorry for the wait, but real life and writer's block decided to team up and beat me down. There will be two more chapters for this story, and after that, a possible one-shot sidestory from Bones's point of view and a possible (very long, if so) one-shot sequel.

Days fly by until, finally, the week of the second anniversary of the destruction of his friend's homeworld comes. He is tense, keeping an eye on Spock from the center seat—he had wanted to give him the week off to begin with, but the Vulcan had stubbornly insisted that he would be "fit for duty." True to the claim, he sees nothing to indicate that Spock is at anything less than his best.

They hole up in his quarters immediately after their shift at his suggestion (just because he hasn't seen any evidence doesn't mean it isn't there), working quietly side-by-side on his bed, Spock attending to some reports from the science department while he tries to get shore leave on Earth in the next several months, while they're near to the planet—a rarity the majority of the crew would like to take advantage of.

He finishes first and throws the padd onto the table. Spock looks at him, eyebrow raised, and he merely smiles back and reclines onto the bed with a satisfied sigh.

"Never knew being a captain would involve so much _paperwork_," he grumbles quietly, running a hand through his hair. "Or does Starfleet do that just for me?"

"I find your theory to be paranoid, sir," says Spock, turning back to his own paperwork. He laughs, hearing the—admittedly faint—teasing note in his friend's voice.

"Maybe," he answers, "but what if they're giving me so much just so I won't have time to do anything really crazy?"

"Your… antics, as Doctor McCoy calls them, have saved Earth and several other Federation planets," comments the Vulcan. He shrugs.

"Let's hope Starfleet keeps my hero status in mind if I ever… _forget_ to file my paperwork," he says.

"The probability of those events is—"

"I've had enough of numbers from the _paperwork_, Spock." The man looks at him, both eyebrows raised and eyes shining in amusement.

"I was going to say slim, Captain," is the answer, and he laughs again. "Though, of course, the probability of your paperwork going unfinished past a deadline would be even slimmer."

"Oh?"

"Indeed. It is my duty as your First Officer to, when you 'forget,' remind you, or—" He swears he sees a smile forming on his friends lips, though it stops at a small up-turning of the corners. "—to do it myself. And as a competent captain who cares much for his crew, you would not allow one of your senior officers to be forced to complete an extra forty-two point three percent of paperwork."

He sits up rapidly, a teasing reply on the tip of his tongue, but never gets the chance to speak it as the intercom unit on the wall whistles. Groaning and making a face at his friend, he rises and punches the button. "Kirk here."

"Transmission coming in from Starfleet, sir. Priority channel."

"Pipe it down here, Lieutentant." There is a moment of silence before the familiar voice of Admiral Komack fills the room.

"Captain Kirk," the admiral says, "you are now ordered to take a shuttlecraftto the planet Epsilon-Canaras III to retrieve Assistant Commissioner Hedford. Miss Hedford is suffering from Shekiro's Disease, and must be given immediate medical assistance from the _Enterprise_. The _Enterprise_ will continue on it's present mission, and you will rendezvous with them, treat the Assistant Commissioner and take her back to Epsilon-Canaras III. You are required to send Chief Surgeon McCoy. Beyond that, we leave assignments to you."

He looks at Spock and receives a raised eyebrow. Turning back to the intercom, he says, "Lieutenant, acknowledge."

"Acknowledged, sir," comes the prompt response.

"Good. Tell Dr. McCoy to be on the hangar deck with a full medical kit in ten minutes."

"Yes, sir."

"Kirk out."

Four hours and thirty-six minutes later finds him with Spock and Bones in the shuttlecraft with the added, stifling presence of Assistant Federation Commissioner Hedford. They are nearly to the scheduled rendezvous point when they are dragged off course by what Spock identifies as "vaguely like a cloud of ionized Hydrogen, with strong, erratic electrical impulses," and he finds himself less irritated by the fact that they're being taken off course than the woman's indignant yelling, no matter how understandable her near-panicked anger may be.

On the surface of the planet they are brought to, he meets the old Federation hero Zephram Cochrane, inventor of the warp drive. He feels a vague pang of regret that he does not have the time to savor this chance meeting, but knows that with Miss Hedford's concerns about to be realized, getting her back to the _Enterprise_ must take precedence.

Then they see it—the Companion. As the iridescent cloud envelopes Cochrane, he thinks that this is one of the most beautiful expressions of love he has ever seen, and says as much to Bones.

"They do seem to be more like lovers than anything else," agrees Bones.

"Captain," says Spock slowly, "you must be aware that it is this creature who is keeping us from our mission."

"Yes, Spock. I know," he sighs, and touches his fingers to his mouth. "What I don't know is what we can do about it."

"I would suggest destroying the creature—" Spock begins, only to be interrupted by an angry outburst from Bones.

"Wait just a damn minute, Spock, you can't just go around killing—"

The Vulcan turns to the angry man and raises an eyebrow as he continues, nonplussed. "—if it were not clear that this Companion cares for Mr. Cochrane, and therefore has some amount of compassion and, for lack of a more accurate description, humanity."

He nods in agreement and is about to reply when Cochrane returns to them to deliver the bad news: the Companion can do nothing for Miss Hedford. He asks Spock to modify the universal translator to attempt to speak with the creature, and his First Officer has it done in record time. Speaking to the Companion, attempting to reason with it, they realize that the Companion truly cannot help them, and will not let them leave.

Then the puzzling question from Cochrane comes—"Why did you build that machine with a feminine voice?"

He explains as best he can that it was the approximation of the Companion's own voice, and all three Starfleet officers are wholly unprepared for the violent explosion of Cochrane's emotions.

Bones attempts to reason with him, saying, "A blind man could see it with a cane! The Companion—"

"I won't be fodder for any inhuman monster!" protests Cochrane, and he is surprised when it is Spock who responds, his voice quiet, his tone even.

Spock's surprisingly warm, expressive eyes locking onto his own, he says, "I do not totally understand the emotion, but it is obvious: the Companion loves you." He feels the air being sucked out of his lungs as though a swift kick had been delivered to his stomach, and his mind reels as he absorbs the implications of the unspoken message. He resists the urge to throw his arms around his friend, and pretends not to see the quizzical looks he's receiving from Bones.

Events happen quickly after that: the Companion joining bodies with the Commissioner to save her life, Cochrane coming to terms with loving and being loved, the shuttlecraft working again, and leaving the two behind. It reminds him of the story of Adam and Eve, and he smiles to himself as he hopes they get to keep their Paradise.

As he's climbing into the shuttlecraft, Spock already at the controls, Bones grabs his arm. "What was that?" asks his friend. "Between you and Spock?"

He grins at Bones and shakes his head. "Just… a conversation." They both receive a raised eyebrow from the Vulcan in question as they take their seats, but only he sees the gentle warmth in his friend's eyes, reserved only for him.

That very same week, he will be forced to make the impossible choice between sacrificing one of his two best friends so that the crew of the _Enterprise _may survive—but for that one moment, he feels content.


	5. Chapter 5

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry this took so long to post, but life decided to hunt me down, beat me up and leave me for dead in a dark alley, and then my word processor decided to crash while I wrote this, and so I lost the original ending. Yeah. Sucks hard. But I hope you like it, and the final chapter is already written, so I promise promise promise that there will be less of a wait.

As he feels the shuttlecraft impact the organism's outer layer and push through, he notes with some interest that the inside of the creature seems primarily filled with plasma. Becoming briefly absorbed in the haze of scientific curiosity, he neglects to send a message to the _Enterprise_ immediately, but does so once he remembers, scolding himself for forgetting in the first place.

"Spock to _Enterprise_, come in _Enterprise_," he says, and knowing that he may get no immediate response, he is about to return to data collection when the sound of Jim speaking halts him. The captain is calling his name with an almost frantic edge to his voice. He feels a strange, illogical burst of… affection for his captain at the undue concern. Then, recognizing that he has no time to indulge himself and his feelings, he pushes them to the back of his mind.

"Are you alright, Spock?" he hears McCoy ask, voice mingling with the captain's rushed orders to the others on the bridge.

"I am…" He stops for a moment as he realizes that he was just about to say "fine." A memory of his mother, her scent like warm cinnamon drifting between them and—he knows that his attention wandered once again and sighs internally. He selects another word. "…undamaged."

The ship confirms having received his response and they say no more as he begins his testing. As the information is transmitted, he notices that the power drain that had been—and still is, he is sure—heavily affecting the _Enterprise_ is near catastrophic to his significantly smaller craft, and within twenty minutes he knows two things. The first is that the creature is ready to split and reproduce himself. The second…

To counter the drain on the instruments, he sets life support to power minimum. He already knows that he will not survive. The least the can do now is to be sure that the _Enterprise_, at least, will have a fighting chance.

X

He sits in the center seat giving orders as it seems he always has, though now he is only faintly aware of what is going on around him. He feels just as drained as the rest of the crew, and Bones has already pumped him full of enough stimulants to give the biggest ogre-like alien a heart attack, but he barely notices these things. He can see the worried looks that his bridge crew are sending his way, and he wants to pretend that they aren't more worried for him than the ship right now, although he knows that this isn't true.

And as worried as he himself is about the ship, underneath all of that numbness he's far more concerned about Spock.

He hadn't wanted to send his First Officer into certain death. But he hadn't wanted to send Bones, either, of course. His two best friends, the two most important people in his life, and he'd had to choose one of them to condemn to death.

He thought then that he was beginning to understand what sort of a man his father had been after all.

Neither he nor Bones had been happy when he'd selected Spock to go, but the Vulcan was better qualified for this than the doctor, and Bones was needed here, since the nurses were—

He had realized that he was panicking, and that is when the peculiar numbness had begun.

The numbness is penetrated somewhat by hearing Spock respond to their message, knowing that his friend was still alive somewhere in that creature. Beyond the crisis-induced numbness and the worry, hope begins to take root.

Just as quickly, that hope is shattered to pieces as Chekov announces that "Meester Spock has turned his life support to power meeneemum."

Normally the Ensign's accent lightens the mood on the bridge considerably, but now all it makes him want to do is strangle someone.

X

He sends a final message to the ship, telling them that the organism is prepared to reproduce and the only possible method of its destruction and when he is certain that he has gathered all data possible, he sits back in his chair and switches on the recorder.

"In the event," he begins, "that this record survives me, I wish it known that I… bequeath my highest commendation to the officers and the crew of the U.S.S. _Enterprise_—the finest ship in the 'Fleet." He knows that there is a hint of pride in his voice during that last part, but cannot bring himself to care. Surely being about to die entitles him to a modicum of emotional expression?

He stops, unsure as to what to say now. In his quarters there are vid recordings he made when he first became the First Officer of the _Enterprise_, and another he made after… her death. He has stated that he wishes to be cremated and his ashes distributed to his father and his older self, in the event that they still live when he dies, and the remainder scattered in the cemetery where she… where _Nyota_ rests. He made it clear that Kirk and McCoy—Jim and Bones, his mind corrects, at least call them that now that you are about to die, no one will know—should handle the distribution of his few personal belongings to anyone who wishes to keep something of his…

His thoughts are suddenly interrupted by a sudden rocking of the craft, and he looks up and a feeling of despair passes through him.

"I have noted the passage of the _Enterprise_ into the organism, and can do no more than… hope they can successfully destroy it." Switching off the recorder, he settles into his seat and waits—and hopes.

X

They receive one more message from Spock, though it's so badly garbled that the most important part of the message is cut out by static. He swallows thickly, squeezing his eyes shut momentarily, and then straightens. He begins to force himself to think about the fact that they may all very well die here.

He records his own message, listing various crewmembers to be commended, giving Spock special attention as is fitting, though all of this is still done on autopilot. Bones has noticed by now, suggesting that he sleep. He shrugs off the suggestion.

A dark fear has begun to take root—something worse than his fear of the entire crew's death. He fears that he sent Spock out there for nothing, and that his friend is already dead.

Bones drags him to his quarters and tries to force him to sleep, but he can still smell Spock's scent on the pillow and so he gets up and begins pacing. The doctor stays and tries to make conversation with him, but it's obvious he isn't paying much attention. Then his friend says something about antibodies, and his mind is thrown into overdrive.

Antibodies. _Anti_bodies.

He strides over to the comm unit on the wall and punches it, contacting Scotty. As he tells the engineer his idea, he begins to feel a glimmer of hope once more despite the cloud of guilt hanging over him. He mentally apologizes to Spock over and over, but does not cry. He counts that an achievement.

Now that he has no duties to attend to—none that he _can_ attend to, he corrects—he allows his mind to wander for the first time in several months.

He thinks of those still on board the _Enterprise_. There is little chance his message got to them intact—for once he does not bother to compute the exact odds—but it is likely that they would figure out that same solution anyhow. Some of the finest minds in the entire Federation are on that ship, he knows, and if anyone can lead them out of this, it is their captain.

Which leads him to Jim. He doesn't want to think about the other man now, he decides, and forces himself to think of other things, other people.

He thinks about his older, alternate self, and wishes he could live to achieve that kind of self-assurance, that kind of inner peace, equilibrium. He quickly realizes that he does not want to think about him either.

Bones, he thinks to himself, think about Bones. He has always thought it to be a strange name, but the story of its origin is logical. The doctor is a good man, he thinks. He may shout far too much, swear far too much, drink more than the other two combined and be near to insubordination at times, but the doctor is a good man. He has never wanted anything but the best for all of those aboard the _Enterprise_—and all life in general. Certainly something to be respected. He recalls the way the man prays every time there is a casualty on the _Enterprise_ and does the same for the doctor now, the unfamiliar words leaving his lips awkwardly.

His thoughts turn to Chekov and Sulu. Their deaths would be a waste—both are highly intelligent, brave and… somewhat endearing. The two are highly competent, and he knows that, should they survive, both would eventually rise to the rank of captain themselves. He thinks that if they must die now, it is better that they are dying together—the two are best friends, after all, and humans derive comfort from being with their comrades when their ends come.

He tries to stop himself, fails, and then gives in and allows his thoughts to turn to _her_. For the second time that day, he forces himself to say her name. He does not know whether he says it aloud, but once he does he seems unable to stop—Nyota, Nyota, Nyota, NyotaNyotaNyota_Nyota_—he stops himself at last, shaking his head as if to clear it. Thoughts of her mingle with memories of his mother as he notes, not for the first time, the similarities between the two of them. They had had the same smile—not physically the same, of course, but the expression had shone with the same purity, the same happiness and love in both of them. Their hands had been small, much smaller than his, and cold when he held them between his own. Their touches were always tender, always soft and sweet. Their eyes had seemed to see through his Vulcan façade, seemed to see the all too human emotions beneath the surface. They had always been prepared to give a kind word—had always given nothing but kind words. He had loved them.

Almost naturally, almost as if it should be this way, his thoughts turn to Jim. James Tiberius Kirk. He turns the name over in his mind, speaks it out loud, and marvels at the emotion he puts into it, the warmth. He cares much for this man, his captain—his friend. In what way, he does not know, and does not want to know for fear that putting a label on the strange friendship they share will break it, will ruin it. This fear is quite illogical, he knows, but does not care.

He looks out the window of the craft and sees the _Enterprise_ moving rapidly towards the nucleus of the organism. Hope flares up inside of him once more, and he says a prayer for them, the words coming easier now than they had before. He does not bother including himself, quite resigned to his fate. Not accepting, no, but resigned.

He purposely leaves out Jim's name in his prayer, knowing that his captain will prefer to rely on luck.

X

They set the charge, prepare the probe full of antimatter, and make their way carefully to the nucleus. He can tell from the expressions on everyone else's faces that their hearts are pounding, and their adrenaline flowing full-force through their bodies. Strangely, he feels calmer than he has been throughout the whole ordeal—a genuine calm, not the all-consuming numbness he had experienced before.

Thinking about it, he realizes that it is because he has come up with a viable solution, one that will either save them or not. Yet either way, he has done his best, and has finally accepted that nothing more can be asked of him.

But the calm is quickly replaced by guilt and sorrow for the loss of Spock, the man who had swiftly come to be… well, his anchor. He pushes it away, telling himself that he'll have plenty of time to cry later. Unbidden, a line from an old Earth play comes to him, and without thinking he murmurs it aloud—"She should have died hereafter; / There would have been a time for such a word." He speaks quietly, but in the utter silence of the bridge he is heard clearly by all. He feels no embarrassment even as all of them turn to look at him, pity in their eyes.

They reach the nucleus, launch the probe and backtrack as quickly but cautiously as possible. He begins to thaw, the numbness and guilt leaving him in favor of an all-consuming sadness. Valiantly fighting it, he manages to keep his composure until it is clear that they will be able to get out.

And then Chekov speaks again, saying slowly, as if he himself doesn't believe it, "Keptin, there is a metallic object outside!" They all know what it is and what it means.

If the shuttlecraft is still out there, Spock might still be alive.

They take it in tow, and as they do so, there is a moment of tense silence and they're only seconds away from successfully escaping the organism's body when Spock's voice fills the bridge. "I must insist," he says, voice strangely weary and not quite the normal monotone, "that you abandon the attempt."

He smiles and laughs delightedly at the sound of his friend's voice, but Bones beats him to the punch, saying, "Shut up, Spock! We're rescuing you." There is a moment of silence on the bridge, and then Spock's answer comes slowly.

"Thank you, _Captain McCoy_."

They all laugh at that, and he lays a hand on Bones's shoulder, squeezing gently. As soon as the organism is confirmed as destroyed, he gives the bridge to Sulu and high-tails it to the hangar deck. He leans heavily against the wall and sinks to the floor, listening to the communications officer on duty announcing that the shuttlecraft is landing, and feels grateful for the strangely empty hallway. He smiles and laughs and almost cries all at once as a single terrifying epiphany strikes him.

He's fallen in love with Spock.


	6. Chapter 6

He finds Jim waiting for him the instant the shuttlecraft lands, looking haggard but happy and with a peculiar sheen to his eyes that suggests he had been or was about to cry. The captain takes a step towards him, and he mimics this. He feels again that strange sense of… affection for his captain as the man laughs delightedly, murmuring his name quietly and running a hand through his already disheveled hair. He offers a small, expressive--but, in this case, justifiably so--smile and cannot help but enjoy the warmth that enters his friend's eyes at the action.

They go to sickbay together, for Bones to ensure that he experienced no ill effects from being inside of the creature so long, and there Jim hovers in the background while he endures the doctor's grumbling ("—green-blooded idiot hobgoblin, switchin' the life support almost off—even Vulcans can't live without air, damn fool—") until he is pronounced healthy enough for light duty the next few days. He finds comfort in the feeling of Jim beside him, in perfect synchronization, as they leave sickbay. Once they reach the turbolift, he commands it to take them to the deck where both of their quarters are located. There is a strangely still moment after the lift begins its motion, Jim staring at him intensely, and he finds himself speaking before he truly realizes the thought is leaving his lips.

"The change in my thoughts of you is oddly fascinating to me," he says, voice steady. Jim looks at him a moment longer before stopping the lift. His mouth goes dry as he remembers the exchange he had once had with her—with Nyota, he can say it now, even though he is no longer facing death--at a similar time, and he marvels once again that the similarities in their mannerisms.

"How so?" asks the captain, and he takes a moment to gather his thoughts, to force them back on this safer course.

"To me, you were first a rather… impetuous cadet whose flagrant disregard for regulations was somewhat… alarming," he begins, looking his friend in the eye as he speaks. "Then you were my captain, someone I respected—the brief period in which the change took place is the most interesting component of this alteration."

"And now?" he prompts.

"When you were only my captain, I thought of you as Kirk," he says slowly. "Now you are simply Jim." This draws a pleased smile from his friend, and there is a moment of hesitation seen clearly in the way the other's muscles tense for a moment, and then Jim murmurs a barely audible "to hell with it," and wraps his arms around his friend.

"Jim, perhaps would should avoid having this emotional display in such a public area—" he begins to protest. He knows very well after his… previous experience with such displays in turbolifts that there are indeed cameras inside of them.

"I thought you were _dead_, Spock," he hears his friend say, the words muffled by the way Jim's mouth is pressed against his shoulder, but the emotion behind them clearly received. "I think we're entitled to an 'emotional display.'" He thinks of when he himself had embraced Jim, after the other had returned from the _Constellation_, and tentatively places his own arms around the captain's body.

During the embrace, he picks up on a staggering amount of love from Jim, as well as a myriad of other emotions--relief, happiness, anger at himself for putting Spock in that shuttlecraft in the first place... He examines and absorbs each sensation with no small amount of wonder. For both of them, the contact is entirely too brief, and he wonders as they release each other and begin the lift again when he began to welcome and enjoy physical contact with this man instead of merely tolerating it.

By silent, mutual agreement, they make their way to Jim's quarters, where he immediately sits down upon the bed. He is momentarily confused as to why he is so weary, and then remembers that this is one of the psychological effects of high-stress situations. He removes his boots and blue uniform tunic and places them neatly on the nearest chair, then lays down, eying Jim. The captain stands just inside the doorway enough to allow the sensors to refrain from opening the door and looks back at him.

"Jim," he says, and it is all that he needs to say. The man removes his own boots and gold shirt before laying down beside him. They do not sleep, though it is now night, both too wound-up to drift off. Instead, they simply watch each other in silence for a time, bodies touching but not quite pressed together. It comforts him.

He wonders what his older self's relationship was with the other James T. Kirk, and he is suddenly struck by the thought that his alternate knew _exactly_ what was to happen between them. He tells Jim this after a moment, and the other seems to hesitate at these words, as if there were something he wants to say but does not know how to express it. As if he does not know if the words would be welcome.

"Yes, Jim?" he prompts, knowing that the use of his friend's first name will make him feel more at ease.

"Nothing," says the captain quickly, and he quickly smothers the feeling of disappointment this unwillingness to share his thoughts prompts. "I just…" His friend trails off, then takes a deep breath as though preparing himself for something. Jim turns onto his stomach and pushes himself up, then gazes down at him. He can hear his friend's heart beating erratically, the pace beginning to speed up, and then a moment later he realizes why as, for the second time, the other's lips meet his own.

Just as before, it is gentle, chaste and quite deliberate, and just as before, he wonders how to react to it. Quickly beginning an analysis of his feelings, he does not finish before Jim pulls away, saying hoarsely, "Damn, Spock, I'm sorry, I—" and he decides to take his older self's advice and "do what feels right."

Impulsively, he reaches out and brushes a hand through his friend's hair, marveling at how such a simple action causes Jim's breath to catch in his throat. He has done this many times before, but always when his friend was asleep, and seeing the subtle changes in the other's demeanor—the slight release of tension around the bright blue eyes, the minor up turn of his friend's lips—makes it suddenly an entirely different experience.

Lowering his hand, he takes Jim's in his and curls the fingers down, but leaves the fore and middle fingers outstretched, curling his own around them.

"This," he states quietly, "is how Vulcans kiss." Jim stares at him, looking almost alarmed, and then grins. He feels the other man's relief and happiness, and does not object this time when Kirk's moves to kiss him again. He feels mildly surprised yet oddly touched, however, when all the man does is press his lips to his forehead.

They fall asleep with their fingers entwined and as they are drifting off, he hears the other say, "You know, she never really liked me, but I think she'd be happy for you."

The thought pulls him suddenly from the contentment of being between wakefulness and sleep, and he feels his body tense slightly. Jim feels it also, and sits up rapidly, running a hand over his face.

"_Damn_ it," the captain says. "I just can't say anything right."

But as much as the reminder of _her_… distresses him at certain times, he knows that Jim is right. "She would not have wanted me to remain in mourning forever," he quietly assures his friend—as well as himself. "I will always… feel her absence, but she would not begrudge me happiness."

"Happiness," whispers his friend, his expression entirely too serious, but then his lips curl into a small smile.

Then—because it feels right—he leans forward to kiss his friend. It is less innocent and more passionate now, their mouths opening to each other and parted lips moving fluidly, easily together, their tongues meeting in a teasing sort of dance, but they soon pull away.

"Do I make you happy?" asks Jim, though there is little insecurity in the question and more amazement.

"Yes," he answers unhesitatingly. "I am quite content."

"With me."

"With you," he echoes in agreement. "With her, and now with you. She… Nyota would be pleased to see me so." They kiss again, and he does not understand, but does not mind, the way each time seems as the first, so new and full of wonder—the same way it was when he kissed her.

The next day at dinner, in the officer's mess, they will sit with Bones and Scotty and Chekov and Sulu and tell them of the change in their relationship. They will quietly and gratefully accept the congratulations and smiles and approval of their companions, and they will toast to Nyota Uhura.

Four months and eighteen days from this moment, they will have their shoreleave on Earth, the leave coinciding with the first anniversary of her death. They will go to her grave together, laying flowers next to the tombstone, with him teaching his captain, his friend, his lover the Vulcan words of parting and loss, repeating them together.

In one year, they will visit the Vulcan colony and inform Sarek and his older self of their altered status, receiving gracious congratulations from Sarek and a knowing smile from his other self.

In three years, they will be back on Earth again for the end of their five-year mission, and they will ask that whatever posting they are given, it is the same for both of them.

But for now, they are content to simply be with each other, the knowledge of their love and the memory of an incredible woman between them, binding them closer together—happy.


End file.
